Lillea Dröttningu
by kAv09
Summary: Eragon and Arya spent a few days together in Ellesméra. The book did not say what they were doing. Approximately 17 years later, a dragon hatches for their daughter, Lillea, and Arya may be forced to confront the past.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own neither any books in the Inheritance series, nor any characters you recognize. **

"Mother!" calls a small girl, her silvery blonde hair streaming behind her and she comes tearing toward her mother, bare feet pounding against the dirt.

"What do you need Lillea (Lil-LAY-yuh)?" Arya responds, not unkindly.

"Can we play swords?" Lillea asks, shy now that she is directly under her mother's gaze, kind yet intimidating. "Please?

"I suppose I'm free at the moment," Arya replies with a soft sigh. "Let's go."

At 115 years old, Arya is quite young for an elf. At only six, Lillea is the youngest elf in Ellesméra. At least, she is mostly elf. Nobody can yet be sure if she possesses the longevity of one, but it seems promising as she has the pointed ears and all the physical attributes of an elf. For though Arya is a full blood elf, Lillea's father is somewhat of a cross.

Though only a game, seeing Lillea fight with her toy sword invokes pride in Arya. Even though so young, Lillea is already a fine swordsman. She possesses determination Arya has only ever seen in one other before: Lillea's father.


	2. Chapter 2

Nine Years Later…

"The dragons are coming! The dragons are coming!"

Grabbing the dark haired girl gently by the sleeve, Lillea stops her. "Soala what are you talking about?" Lillea asks.

"The eggs!" the young girl responds with just much vigor. The elven young had begun coming back after Galbatorix was killed, and children were no longer such a rarity in Du Weldenvarden.

"When?" Lillea asks, eyes bright. She had nearly forgotten that this was the elves' year for the dragon eggs.

"Soon!" Soala exclaims before tearing off to continue crowing the news. The dragon eggs are brought in groups of three to Ellesméra once every three years, a stop along a cycle they and their chaperones make to all the major cultural cities: Trojeim, Aberon, the Capital of Urgals, Palancar Valley, and finally, Ellesméra.

The last time the eggs were here, Lillea recalls, they were a pale red, a deep brown, and sea colored mixture of blue and green.

Hurrying across Ellesméra to the High House where her mother's quarters are, Lillea stops when she sees Arya.

One look into Lillea's curious blue eyes and Arya knows what Lillea wants. "Tomorrow," Arya says, answering the unasked question. "The dragons are coming."


	3. Chapter 3

The first hint of their coming comes as a bronze dragon flying overhead. The elves all cheer as a procession breaks through the trees. A lanky, sky blue dragon heads the procession, followed by an elf, a dwarf, and an urgal, each carrying a jewel encrusted wooden box. Due to Lillea's status she is afforded an excellent view as they march through the city to the High House. All the elves follow in a procession.

A large feast follows with much drinking and laughter. Numerous savory dishes are set out: meat and fish, vegetables and fruit, grains and vegetables, wine and mead. In addition, three large boars and two barrels of mead are provided for the dragons.

Once everyone has had their fill and the sun has set, Arya stands up and walks to the front. Lillea smiles, for this part is her favorite, and has been since she was a girl. She loves this tale her mother is about to tell, for it is full of adventure, friendship, and romance. And her mother tells it just right.

"There once was a farm boy named Eragons egg.

The dwarf lifts his next as the elf returns the tan egg to its case. The dwarf's egg is the sea colored one from last time, shimmering and roiling like heat in the air. Or perhaps it is only her imagination and the wine. The baby in that egg must be a finicky one.

The last one that is brought out makes Lillea cover her mouth with her hand to stifle her sharp intake of breath. The large hand of the urgal supports a shiny silver egg. It is subtly beautiful, and seems to glow and change shape in the flickering light from the candles, spilling and molding, quicksilver. Lillea feels a pull on her heart, a warm pulse that draws her toward it. However, as the elven princess, she stays firmly in her seat and contents herself with only gazing upon its beauty. Yet it, as all the others, is put away, and, after some final words, everyone retires to bed.

It is barely even dawn yet, but Lillea climbs out of bed. Shivering in the morning air, she dons a light, green spring dress. Unable to help herself, she creeps towards the treasury in the High House where she knows the eggs are being kept.

The first door to the treasury has a spell on it to keep any of non royal blood from entering, and the second blocks any with ill intent. Lillea crosses the threshold with some trepidation. Did she hold ill intent? She does not even know what she is entering for, only that she must see them again. More specifically, the silver one. She mustn't have any evil in her heart, for she passes easily into the room. Right away, her eyes alight upon the flawless silver oval, and she goes moves soundlessly over to it, drawn to it as a magnet is drawn to metal, just as inexplicable as it irresistible. Holding in a breath, she reaches out to brush her fingertips across the living jewel.


	4. Chapter 4

Lillea lightly brushes the egg with her fingertips, but quickly pulls back, shocked at how warm it is. The smooth reflective surface is soft to the touch, yet much harder than any rock. Lillea stares. Suddenly, it twitches. Lillea's eyes widen in shock and her hand flies over her mouth. The egg wiggles again, and Lillea's begins to panic. What had she done? Lillea wonders, terrified. She was not even supposed to be here in the first place, and now she had jeopardized one of the eggs.

A long crack appears on the once flawless surface, accompanied by a shattering sound. Then another.

And another. Finally, a small head pops out.

A miniscule dragon crawls out of the egg fragments and looks straight at Lillea with eyes like mercury.

For a moment, Lillea simply watches in astonishment. Then she stumbles forward eagerly. She knows how a hatching works, and wants nothing more than to claim this gorgeous creature before her.

Lillea stops a few inches from the baby dragon and stretches out a hesitant hand. The hatchling immediately stretches out its long neck, touching its snout to her palm. Lillea winces, pulling her hand back quickly. The marking hurts more than she had expected. The pain is gone as soon as it had come, however, and soon Lillea is smiling proudly at her shining palm.

The dragon makes a gurgling noise in its throat, so Lillea tears her gaze off of her hand and sees the dragon struggling to reach the ground. Lillea quickly moves forward and helps it off of the pedestal upon which its egg had been resided.

Once on the floor, Lillea sits beside the small creature and begins gently scratching the ridge behind its ear, causing it to croon in pleasure. Lillea smiles and murmurs, "I wish I knew if you are a 'he' or a 'she'." Just then, Arya walks in.

Lillea's head snaps up, wide eyed and scared. She had forgotten about that there was an outside world. Regaining some sense, she silently holds out her shaking right hand, palm forward to her shocked mother, featuring the gedwëy ignasia that lights up her palm.

"I came to check on the eggs," Arya starts bemusedly, finally speaking. "The guards said they heard some noise. Some noise indeed."

Lillea notices that her mother seems to be considering something, probably what to do next. Yet one emotion rules out over Arya's face and makes warmth bloom inside Lillea: Pride.

"Let us get your dragon out of here," Arya says decisively. Then addressing the dragon, "You are probably hungry. Let us get you some food."

My dragon, Lillea thinks with awe. Lillea scoops the small beast into her arms, and though it squirms a little, it tolerates her carrying it.

The High House is quiet at this time of day, so they pass fairly easily through the halls and into the woods without the dragon being noticed. Arya leaves them once they get into the trees, returning only minutes later, a few things with her.

Arya first brings out some of last night's abundant meat leftovers and the dragon eats every bit, sniffing along the ground for more once it finishes. It's so small that Lillea stares with wide eyes as it finishes the meat off. The hatchling just returns her gaze innocently.

Lillea knows that the ceremony for the Trials of Hope soon starts. In this ceremony, the elves all parade past the eggs and hope desperately that one will hatch for them. The life of a Rider is a presented as a glamorous one. No eggs hatched here last time. She wonders when they will know of the news. Lillea's eyes wander down to the other object Arya has brought them: a tough woven leash.

With a sigh, she hooks her dragon to the tree with the leash. Arya had assured Lillea that nothing dangerous—other than elves— roams this part of the forest, and that her baby dragon already is capable of defending itself against any non-magic creatures. Yet Lillea worries.

Reluctantly, she turns and walks away, not turning back to see small silver eyes sadly watching her leave.


	5. Chapter 5

Sneaking on light feet, Lillea bounds up to her room so as to not alert anyone of her previous absence. She quickly strips herself of her casual dress and dons more formal wear, a ruffled scarlet dress, lacing it up with nimble fingers.

More casually now, she slips out of her room to her mother's side. Arya continues staring forward, yet acknowledges her daughter's presence with a slight lift of her chin.

All elves, old and young, common and royal, male and female, line up eagerly.

"Without further delay, let us begin!" Arya proclaims with a steady voice.

Excited, the line moves slowly forward. Once the front person is a foot from the tan egg, he stops. Arya nudges Lillea gently so she moves to the eggs. As princess, Lillea gets first trial, just behind the queen. Since Arya already has Firnen though, and they wish to keep Lillea's dragon a secret for now, the princess is up first.

Dignified, she strides slowly toward the colored orbs, chin high. The collective elven body seems to hold its breath as she places an open palm first on the tan egg. It is rough to the touch, while the sea-looking egg is cool and smooth.

After a few moments of the expected lack of response, Lillea slips back to Arya. At a motion from Arya, the line advances. Confusion sets in, obvious from the murmurs traveling through the line and the hesitation of those up front.

Arya sighs and holds up a hand for silence, at which point the line and the voices stop completely. "The egg you notice missing hatched this morning," she announces. "These two are still in The Trial."

The people wait for their queen to say more, perhaps who it hatched for, or how the eggs were accessed before the ceremony. She hopes they are too distracted with the prospects in front of them to work out the puzzle. When nothing more comes from their ruler, they slowly continue moving. Everyone speculates on who the new rider could be.

As the ceremony progresses, Lillea cannot stay focused. Another egg could have hatched and Lillea would not have noticed. Her thoughts continue to stray to a silver beast tied to a woven leash in the forest.

_ 'Already a fine creature,'_ a deep voice resonates in her head, and Lillea jumps.

_ 'Oh, hello Firnen,'_ she replies mentally to the great, green dragon lying beside Arya as soon as she recovers herself. _'And yes,'_ Lillea finishes, focusing on an image of the gorgeous hatchling.

_ 'Hmm, yes. You two shall do great things, I think,'_ Firnen announces to her mentally. With that, Firnen withdraws contact, leaving her confused, yet hopeful.

The minute the ceremony ends, Lillea darts inconspicuously away with a sack of food, sprinting once she hits the trees through the foliage until she reaches her destination.

"Hi," she whispers, dropping to her knees to untie the hatchling. It hums and rubs its small head against her hand. Scratching the animal behind the ears, she lays out some food. "I swear you've gotten bigger."

Today's meal consists of scraps of Firnen's hunt, which he made sure was plentiful. The little creature snaps up the deer flesh, snarling protectively.

A routine is established. Each morning, before the sun rises, Lillea runs to her silver dragon. She feeds it, then sits with it, sometimes talking, sometimes not. She is not even sure it understands what she is saying, but she talking anyway. Once the sun rises, she must tie up the dragon and take care of her daily duties, and not let a continuous absence become a suspicious for anyone. Once dusk sets in, she hurries back with more food to spend time with the thing her world now revolves upon. When Lillea is leaving for the night on the fourth day, something changes.

_'Lillea' _

Her head whips around.

_'Lillea' _

Lillea smiles widely and strengthens the contact. _'Hi.' _

He, for the voice is deep and smooth and unmistakably male, seems amused.

_'Well, now that we know you are a he, we need a name for you,'_ Lillea tells him thoughtfully. He just waits, twitching his tail like a cat.


	6. Chapter 6

"Mother!" Lillea breathes, cheeks flushed with excitement. "He spoke with me today! He is a he!"

Brow furrowed in confusion, Arya asks, "Who?"

"_Him!"_

Suddenly Arya's face clears and a small smile graces her face. _Of course, _she realizes, _the hatchling._

"Ah, I see. Would you happen now to have a name in mind?" she asks.

"No, actually I was rather hoping you might be able to help me there," Lillea says, lips pursed thoughtfully.

"Of course," Arya responds, sitting down on a nearby seat; Lillea follows suit. "There is of course Saphira, Firnen, and Thorn," Arya begins, "but also Glaedr, Shruiken, Jura, Hirador, Fundor. There was Galzra, Briam, Ohen the strong, Beroan, Roslarb, Aeolus, Maximius the great, and Gretiem. Any of those sound right?"

Lillea's brow creases as she thinks, turning each name over in her mind. "I am not sure."

Without saying anything, Arya disappears for a short while, returning with a large, leather-bound album. "It could take me hours to name them, but seeing them might help too. This is the book of all riders ever recorded, as well as the names of their mounts. Minus the Forsworn, naturally. " Lillea nods, accepting the heavy book. But Arya is not done.

"Also," Arya continues, "these." She hands Lillea several more albums. "I was actually about to go looking for you when you found me. As a rider, knowledge of different cultures will be expected of you. Take these to your quarters and read a little before you go to sleep each night. Deposit these in your room, then return here. Your physical training must begin as well, and we have waited long enough."

And so, laden down with books, she makes her way to her tree. Upon returning, Lillea follows Arya to the training field beside the stables. She is familiar with this place; she has sparred here often, mostly with peers.

"Now that you are a rider," Arya begins, "your training must be more vigorous than ever. We will work on your swordsmanship every other day, and magic on the days between." She continues, "The Rimgar must be performed each and every morning, in addition to an hour of meditation. Understand?" she finishes firmly.

Lillea smiles slightly, and tilts up her head. She has wanted to ride a dragon since before she could walk. "Yes master."

Arya smiles faintly. "Excellent. Let us begin."

And so it began.

Each day, her training sessions began with the Rimgar. The Dance of Snake and Crane was a traditional exercise for elves, so Lillea had been practicing it since she was little. Still, it was a great way to start a day. That, and meditating in the forest. Though she could not master the art of _listening until she heard no more, _she still found it a calming exercise loaded with the secrets of nature.

Each night, Lillea returned to her room, mind numbed with exhaustion. On the days of sparring, Arya gave Lillea several new bruises each time, whilst stressing the importance of concentration and focus. _Think, _she'd say. _Most matches are won with the brain, not the arm. Pay attention and find a weakness. Everyone has one. _Arya fought with her mouth in a thin line, and seemed to predict all of her moves, and when she made up combos, Arya anticipated them as if she had seen them before and was familiar with that sort of style.

Despite receiving many lectures on the importance of the mind, the actual fights themselves made Lillea's reflexes lightning-fast and her body strong. Arya made a habit of using a borrowed sword, as a rider sword would make Lillea even more outmatched. Though sometimes she used her green blade, and Lillea practiced guarding her sword with magic, until eventually she grew too tired and the steel blade shattered under Arya's onslaught.

While the sword fighting exhausted her, magic made her very bones weary. They worked on all aspects of magic, from wards to destruction. She lifted, summoned, and altered objects. Her small bit of natural elven magic began to turn into the raging torrent of Rider power it would eventually become.

Yet she felt as though she never got stronger. Just as she conquered one part of her training, Arya made it harder.

Also included in her schedule was several visits daily to her rapidly-growing dragon, and nights spent poring over ancient literature.

One night, only a week into her new regime, Lillea was again studying dwarven culture. She stifled a yawn as the book listed off each dwarven king by name. Then suddenly, her scanning gaze settled on one. She whispered it, satisfied with the power it seemed to possess as it slid from her throat.

Quietly, she slipped from her bed and draped a heavy cloak about her. She needed to test this, _now._

Over the last few days they had tried several names, running through each just in case. Some, like Aeolus and Maximius, received a reluctant 'no' given after a brief pause. Others, such as Gretiem and Roslarb, received instant negative vibes.

As soon as he caught her scent, she felt him send her a buzz of excitement. Curious and amused, she made her way to the clearing. Immediately when she emerged into the break of trees, the dragon called, '_Watch!'_

Unfurling wings larger than his body, he launched himself into the air and hovered there, using long, deep strokes. She felt the pride emanating from him as she watched in approval, bouncing pride back at him. The way he flew contrasted strongly with Firnen's method of flight: Firnen used lots of shallow, quick strokes to stay airborne, while this dragon had slow, measured, powerful strokes that would be good for hours of flight. His wings were proportionally far bigger, however, clearly made for such steady flight. This realization only strengthened her certainty of the name, which reverberated in her head.

Sensing the pressing thoughts in her mind, he slowly landed, as neatly as he could manage at this point.

'_I might have a name,' _she told him with the air of one about to announce a new king. It was a king's name, after all. Catching how excited she was about this name, he eagerly attempted to take it from her mind. Smiling, she held it just out of his reach behind a mental wall. Finding the metal game more difficult than expected, she then wondered how powerful he would be when full-grown. She had excellent control of her mind, normally.

He withdrew then, setting patiently. Suddenly, she released the name, allowing it to echo soundly around her mind.

'_Volund.'_

Meaning 'hammer' or 'forge' in Dwarven, it seemed to suit the heavy set of his shoulders and chest. Lifting his head in pride, he attempted a fearsome, flaming roar. However, a croak accompanied by a puff of smoke was all that was achieved.

Stifling a grin, she whispered, "Definitely getting there. That probably could have almost scared Saphira."

'_Really?'_

Allowing a genuine smile spread across her face, she answered mentally, _'Really. And the name?'_

'_It is truly mine. __**Volund.'**_

Satisfied, Lillea just nodded.

'_Go now. You are not a creature of the night,' _he stated in concern.

"_A goodnight then, Volund," _she said, both mentally and verbally.

He responded in turn, and so, bundling her cloak tighter about her shoulders, she turned and disappeared into the forest shadows.


	7. Chapter 7

**PLEASE READ: I am so sorry. I have no excuses for my unbelievably extended absence. If anyone comes back to read this, I will be very honestly astonished, yet incredibly grateful for your loyalty. I have posted under this Author's Note a chapter I had actually written those two years ago. I won't lie, I have lost most to all motivation for this story, but that's not exactly surprising considering how long I let it sit. However, if anyone comments on this and tells me that they still wish for me to continue with it, I will. I plan to do my very best to set a bi-weekly update date, as I do now have some time on my weekends in the spring. My most sincere thanks to any and all who came back onto this, and most sincere apologies for my outright failure on this story thus far. If I have even one person who wants me to continue, I will. Now, without further adieu…**

Over the course of the next few weeks, Volund grew stupendously, legs as thick as tree trunks, and a massive chest and shoulders. His wings grew as well, each now spanning approximately the length of his body.

Lillea and he also had their first flight.

One warm morning, when Lillea went to visit Volund, she sat upon his back, speaking with him. They did this often, her teaching him of the world and sharing stories, seated comfortably in the hollow behind his neck. This time, he seemed particularly excited, yet would say nothing until prodded. So, against her better judgement, she asked. He responded only with, '_Hold tight!_,' and unfurled his massive wings with a great _whoosh_. Then he shoved off the ground, thrusting with his powerful back legs.

Lillea let out a little squeak before she threw her arms around as much of his scaly neck as she could, avoiding the sharp spikes jutting out. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her head in her arms when she heard:

'_Open your eyes.'_

Slowly, she raised her head and peered through slitted eyelids. Lillea gasped.

The forest below them was so vast, the canopy looking like a carpet of moss. She had read of the size of the forest and the Hadarac Desert beyond, yet the immensity of it all could never be imagined nor understood through text. Beyond the vast expanse of green to the south lay a land of great, rolling sands, as far as the eye could see.

Volund suddenly banked sharply to the right, causing her to clutch at the smooth spike protruding nearest her on his neck. He leveled out then, guiding them until they hovered high above a small isle. This isle, however, was not a small patch of land in the ocean. It, too, floated in the sky.

Sensing the warning in his head, Lillea again wound her arms quickly around him as he abruptly tucked his wings in and plummeted in a tight nosedive toward the ground. The air whirled, deafening, around, and she was paralyzed: unable to scream, unable to close her eyes. Just before they were going to slam into the grassy ground, Volund snapped out his massive wings, and the air rushed to fill them with a great _crack!_, like air filling a snapping sail. Then he tucked his wings once more, dropping the small remaining distance, absorbing the shock with his hind legs.

She was frozen, unable to properly think. Volund gently nudged her mind, working her slowly out of her shock. Finally, Lillea was able to unlatch her arms from his neck and stumble onto the grass. She realized then how excellent a flyer he had become. She had known he could, but had not seen him fly since the first time he showed her.

Lillea could feel his pride, but also his worry. So, she forced herself to her feet, ignoring the raw pain on her thighs from the scratching of his scales, and let her genuine awe for his flying skills show. She could not help but add, '_Show off_.'

Stretching his neck contentedly, he hummed deep in his chest. Then he said, '_Look around you, hatchling.'_

She did. A small smile curved her lips as Lillea took in the perfectly picturesque scene before her. Soft, green grass, scattered trees, and a sparkling spring. In the center of the isle grew a great oak, watching over the island. It was all surreal, the drawing from a fairy book.

'_What is this place?'_ she asked. In response, she got a jumble of images: the oak as a young tree, an egg shell, a pure white dragon with a man, the original Eragon, a quaking ground…

'_I am not sure_.'

Lillea pivots and feigns left, before switching her blade to a heavy, right-tilted overhead blow. Arya snaps her guard up quickly, calling her feint and blocking her swing. A resounding crack rings out as Lillea's flimsy steel sword yields again to the power of the Rider's blade Arya wields, and fragments into several pieces. Arya sighs and sheaths her sword. This is the third time this has happened this week.

"Training is over for today. Go and bathe, then change into a more fitting outfit. Today, we reveal Volund."

She nods and responds, "Yes, master," the dutiful apprentice she must be, but cannot help but add, "but must we? He is so young and-"

"I understand your worry," she interrupts. "I felt the same when I received Firnen, but look honestly LIllea. Volund is ready." She smiled a little on the last part.

Lillea nods again, and does not add more this time, but the worry still knots in her chest as she excuses herself and heads back to her room.

After she bathes, Lillea slips on plain leggings and a green tunic embroidered with gold and silver threads. A heavy belt strung with gems is buckled onto her waist, as well as a sheath. She uses a headband to push her hair back and wears plain, soft-soled brown boots. Without anymore preparations left to make, she takes a deep breath and leaves to search for her mother.

Arya is waiting for her when she arrives at the steps of the High House. "Follow me," is all she says.

They traverse a good portion of Ellesméra before Lillea realizes where it is that they are heading. Once she does, a great excitement bubbles up in her: Rhunön's.

As they approach, Rhunön is steadily pounding on what appears to be some sort of armor piece. Once she sees them, she sets her hammer aside and wipes her brow with a greasy cloth.

"Highness, Lillea," Rhunön says respectfully, nodding to each in turn.

"Greetings, Rhunön-elda. How have your days been since we last spoke?" Arya asks.

"Fair enough. Now, what brings you here?" she responds gruffly. "No offense, but I do have some work to get back to, and not much time for idle talk."

"Follow us, please, then," Arya sighs, then nods at Lillea to lead. Lillea nods nervously, now understanding why her mother was doing this. She was getting her her sword.

With Arya and Rhunön in tow, Lillea follows her familiar path through the trees, keeping silent company. Just before the clearing Volund presently resides in, she pauses to warn him.

'_Volund.'_

'_What is it, hatchling?'_

Lillea paused, hesitant. Then, '_someone is here to see you.' _She sends images of Rhunön the Smith, and of them following her through the trees. He chuckles at my worry.

'_I am eager to meet her. Come.'_

Outnumbered, Lillea sighs resignedly and takes the final steps, striding into the clearing and directly to Volund.

Arya first follows, then Rhunön, who's normally unaffected demeanor slips, betrayed by the widening of her yes and the step back she takes.

"A million reasons as to why I was being led out here went through my mind," she whispers huskily when she is finally able to find words at all. Then she bows.

'_May the stars watch over you, Rhunön-elda,' _says Volund, projecting his thoughts to everyone and surprising them. _'I am Volund.'_

"I never thought I would live to see another young dragon, Bjartskular," Rhunön says, straightening out of her bow.


	8. Chapter 8

**(A/N): Back, as promised! Alright, so I am probably going to change some things about how my story is originally present to people, namely the title (because it's incorrect), the summary (because it's misleading), and the people I said it's about (because that too is misleading, since it's mostly an OC story). This chapter is a bit of a filler, but I have plans for the stuff to come, so bear with me! And please feel free to yell at me if I miss an update day, otherwise I can turn into an abominable procrastinator. And by bi-weekly, I meant once every two weeks, sorry if that was unclear. Thanks for all who are still here, and for any new readers!**

Rhunön wastes no time starting on the new Rider's blade for Lillea. Though she seemed most reluctant to leave Volund's presence at all, once she does, she marches back through the forest at a driving pace, forcing Lillea to a near jog to keep up. Once they arrive back at her forge, the old smith pushes aside the piece she had been hammering and sets immediately to work.

She takes measurements with deft hands, asking her questions on her fighting style as well. Lillea preferred to fight one handed, as two handed blades and shields tended to be only cumbersome for the small girl. Consequently, she preferred the speed and flexibility of wielding only one light blade. Rhunön also has her demonstrate some of her sword fighting, dodging and sparring with an invisible enemy.

"I had been under the impression that there was no more brightsteel that we knew of on this earth," Arya says with a frown when the smith brings out a large sheet of intriguing metal. Rhunön does not look up, studying the piece with an almost reverent eye.

"So had I, until a little over a decade ago, when we signed that new contract that included the dwarven kin. They revealed to me the great stock that they had found in their mountains and mines, simply stored up in a great room, unable to be worked by their traditional forges." Her eyes sparkle when she finally glances up, but quickly returns her attention to the brightsteel. "Once I swore I would also make their riders' blades with the material, they allowed me to have it." She now looks up and focuses on Lillea and Arya for what seems like the first time since she saw Volund.

"Of course, it is not all here," she continues. "I left most of it back in their storehouses and gave their smiths the techniques I found for working it. But I always have enough here. What did you think I was making all the swords for the new riders from, Highness?" she finishes, posing the last question for Arya.

"I was not sure," she murmurs in response, running a finger along the sparkling metal. "I guess I figured you were reusing old ones, but whether you were merely altering the blade or actually melting down the old metal had remained a mystery." She looks Rhunön straight in the eye now, and speaks more clearly, "Naturally, however, I am glad that you found a way to avoid the destroying of the blades of old. Nevertheless, I wish I had been informed, and am going to ask you to please do that better in the future, Rhunön-elda."

Rhunön raises a brow at the sudden formality, but bows dutifully and says only, "Yes, Highness." Her show of obeisance over, she retakes control of her own forge. "I must get started right away. This blade will take at least a week to complete, and I will send someone to fetch you once it is completed. Now, to find Ulfrida. Always running off that girl..." Rhunön says, almost fondly.

Ulfrida was the young dwarven apprentice that had come up to learn from their great smith, Lillea recalls. She, too, would need to know of Volund's existence in order to work on the blade.

"And of your oath to never again forge the blade of a rider?" Arya questions.

"That is where Ulfrida comes in," Rhunön grunts, already nearly lost to the world of the living.

"I do not understand," the queen of Ellesméra presses, and gets a few more moments of the smith's attention.

"I will work through her, as I once did the boy Eragon."Lillea notices her mother suddenly stiffen, and wonders what it is about the method that offends her so. Rhunön continues as if she does not notice, or does not care. "But Ulfrida has both some talent with the forge and much shorter limbs. I swear I bruised every appendage on that poor lanky boy's body…"

Lillea barely holds back the snort of laughter at the thought of the great and powerful dragon rider who freed the kingdom from the rule of the notorious tyrant Galbatorix, hopping around this forge and cursing from a stubbed toe. Even Arya's lips twitch in the threatening beginnings of a smile.

Arya looks as if she might say something, but only shakes her head in slight amusement when she realizes that Rhunön is now completely absorbed in her work, and the two women in her shop have been entirely forgotten. She motions to Lillea toward the door, and the two exit.

The next day, when Lillea's sword again shatters in training with her mother, she only grins. It does not seem a frustration anymore, but a promise, and she feels excitement rather than despair when she sees the perfectly undamaged green blade that belongs to Firnen's rider. "Good fight," she says cheerfully to her mother, then looks up and laughs at the shadows that pass over them. Firnen and Volund are up flying over the trees, and she feels both the exaltation and in the same the concentration that radiate from Volund as he strives to copy the things Firnen is teaching. Arya, however, frowns.

"They are going to be seen by the elven people if they continue at that height," she says disapprovingly. Apparently at Arya's unspoken request, Firnen reels suddenly to the side and begins to lead Lillea's dragon farther from both them and Ellesméra. Apparently right on time, for just then an elderly steward of her mother's court comes toward them. He bows to Arya and her daughter and exchanges the proper greetings, then speaks to his queen quietly, apparently court business. The older woman sighs at whatever she hears.

"You are dismissed, Lillea. Do some independent studying. Tomorrow as well, for Lólindir is quite correct, there are some things I have been neglecting, and need to be dealt with. If I am caught up, your training will resume the day after," she instructs, then turns back to the man, Lólindir, to walk back to the High House.

Lillea bows and leaves, returning to her tree room. After bathing, however, instead of studying as she had been instructed, Lillea lies on her bed and listens to Volund's focus and determination as he still flies with Arya's dragon. Instead of making her smile this time, though, she thinks of Arya asking them to fly out of sight and frowns. Why is Arya still hiding them? Yes, she had been nervous to expose Volund, but the other riders were usually recognized directly at their choosing. Then, as soon as their blades were complete, they and their hatchlings undertook nearly immediately the long trek to the training camp across the sea, led by Eragon and Saphira themselves. And yet here she and Volund are, already a month after their bond began, and still Rhunön is the only outsider to know. Perhaps she is weaker than the other elven riders had been, and she is not yet reader for training under the greatest of this time. Yet Lillea does not think so, for she had seen some chosen who could hardly wield enough magic to light a candle when they had begun. That was the point of the training.

Lillea realizes that she is now disturbing Volund's focus with her worrying thoughts, and so she stifles them, for now, and picks up a heavy volume titled The Names and Deeds of Dragon Riders Thru History, and begins the tedious reading, as her mother asked.


	9. Chapter 9

**(A/N): More changes that are going to be taking place: I am a bit unsatisfied with my previous chapters. This isn't really surprising, considering I wrote them two years back, but Lillea is a bit immature. Not terribly, and I am not going to be entirely redoing her personality (not that it's very set up yet), but I am going to be tweaking just a few things. There are also some minor inconsistencies that I don't like being in there that I plan to edit. The changes shouldn't affect the new chapters or your understanding of the story, so don't worry about having to go back and reread them, they are just going to be there for mine and new peoples' sakes.**

The trees sigh deeply in the breeze, slowly moving and growing, steady and strong. The ants in the ground fight a huge, spiky beast, attacking like soldiers in ranks, defending their queen. The bumblebees float slowly about, scanning for pollen among the bright petals of the meadow flowers. The squirrels fly and leap, chittering about and calling, frightening birds who take to the sky, calling and cursing-

"Lillea!"

The girl jerks out of her meditation at the sound of her name. Blinking a few times to come back to the surface word, she sees Ulfrida, and her heart skips a bit. _Please be here for what I think you are here for…_

"Sorry for interrupting your...nap," Ulrida says, and LIllea does not even bother to correct her. This is too important.

"But your blade is ready, and Rhunön told me to fetch you immediately," she finishes, admiration for the grisled smith in her tone. Lillea jumps to her feet as her heart leaps into her throat, and she races for the forge. Behind her, she hears Ulfrida curse under her breath, struggling to keep up.

As she reaches the edge of tree cover, Lillea slows to a quick, dignified walk, exercising the full extent of her self control to keep her gait to the smoothness of walking. The city is longer than she has ever remembered it being before. Lillea has yet to settle on a name for the blade, and is running through her list of possibilities quickly in her mind, trying to decide upon her favorite before she reaches Rhunön. But the forge comes first and names are driven from her mind when she shoulders open the heavy doors. She stands there in silence, and the smith nearly smiles at her eagerness and flushed cheeks. Ulfrida lumbers in behind her, panting from the pace and glaring at the elven princess. This succeeds in making Rhunön snort with amusement.

Then, sobering up, but with eyes still twinkling, Rhunön picks up the brand new rider's blade, wrapped in cloth, and lifts it to Lillea. The cloth falls open, and she gasps appropriately.

For the blade is silver, but not ordinary silver. It seems to glow and sparkle, the more marvelously intricate shading of Volund's scales, than the flat sheen of steel. She reaches out to take the hilt, smaller than average for her small hands, and feels the warmth travel through her arm. Set in the pommel is a diamond, its coloring beautiful as quicksilver. Eyes wide, she lifts the blade and, gazing at its beauty, knows immediately its name.

_"Stjornu," _she and Volund say together, she verbally and he from where he is watching in her mind.

"The star that guides," Rhunön says quietly. "May you grow to fit it, and may you and Volund become a symbol of hope and leadership." Lillea accepts her blessing solemnly, bowing deeply before both Rhunön and Ulfrida in turn.

"I can never repay such a gift," Lillea's voice is rough, and she clings to her sword.

"It would not be a gift if I looked for recompense," Rhunön says gruffly, then smiles a little and picks up the scabbard, made of a darker gray, and marked with pale silver designs through it, the color of Volund's stomach. Murmuring a few words in the ancient language, Rhunön inscribes on the scabbard the rune for Stjornu in the ancient language, then takes the blade from Lillea, reluctant to part with it for anything, and marks the same rune on its hilt. She then hands both to the girl. Buckling them both on, Lillea bows again and stutters out another thanks before hurrying off to find her dragon.

It is nearly a week before Arya finds the time to train with Lillea again, during which time she is fully distracted with anticipation, desiring nothing more than to test out her new blade. When she meets Arya in the morning near the training green, she first notices that her mother looks tired. Dark crescents under her eyes threaten to mar the otherwise beautiful face. There is also a slight bow to her strong shoulders, a nearly imperceptible drag to her graceful walk, very small things that Lillea would not have picked up on had she not known her mother for sixteen years. Yet she is here, and Lillea can finally try out Stjornu.

Drawing her sword, she faces off. Arya draws her blade as well, but does not assume a fighting stance. "Guard your blade, LIllea," Arya sighs, and Lillea realizes with embarrassment that in her excitement she had forgotten and would have been attacking with an unhindered rider's blade. Blushing at her mistake, she quickly mutters the correct spell and runs the small bead of light down the length of the blade. Double checking in her mind that she has forgotten nothing else, Lillea raises her blade again. This time, Arya does the same.

The sword makes all the difference. She had not practiced with Stjornu, but she did not need to. This blade is natural, a perfect extension of her arm, effortless. For all the blades she has fought with, all the wooden practice swords, the elven steel, the unbalanced training blades, the toy ones she had wielded as a child, LIllea had not believed that it could matter any longer the weapon she wielded. But it does.

About seven minutes in to their fight, it happens. Perhaps it is the exhaustion in Arya from trying to play all the roles of mother, trainer, rider, and queen. Perhaps it is that there is no drag to her magic, no energy drained from her at each blow in order to maintain the protective spells on the elven steel. Perhaps it is Volund, bolstering her strength with the massive reserves of his own. Perhaps it is her rigorous training over these past years, and even more strenuous these past months, for Arya had been fighting longer, but Lillea had been training harder. Perhaps it is some combination of all things, and more. But she finally does it. Seeing her opening, Lillea performs a disarming maneuver and Arya's green rider's blade thuds into the dirt, displacing a small cloud of dirt as it lands.

For a second, everything freezes. Both women stare at where the blade lies on the ground, the dust settling back to its place. Then Arya looks up. And she smiles. It is not a smile that shows her teeth, but Lillea does not think she has ever seen that from her mother anyway. But it is a smile so full of pride, the glint in her eye livens the dull exhaustion for a moment. And breathlessly, Lillea speaks, before she can change her mind.

"I want to be revealed to the people," she says in a rush.

"What?" Arya asked, not even truly out of breath.

More slowly now, "I am ready for the people of Ellesméra to know of Volund and me. I wish to be made public as a rider." Arya purses her lips for a moment, thinking, studying her daughter.

"And what exactly makes you think that you are ready, or that you know better than I when that might be?" Arya asks. But Lillea does not respond like she expects, using the riders of the past to justify her wish and claim at partial treatment.

"I know that I am. I have Stjornu now, and Volund is very strong. Our time of hiding is over.

Lillea says nothing of her own powers, and Arya wonders if it is modesty, or if she genuinely does not feel them worth mentioning. She does not wish to expose her daughter yet, wants still to hide her and keep her safe. Yet, she must finally concede. LIllea is powerful, and so is her dragon. She would be in no danger, besides. There is absolutely no reason she can find to delay this longer.

"Very well, Lillea Dröttningu. Tomorrow, I shall call a meeting, toward late morning, and you shall get your wish. Be prepared to demonstrate your basic competencies to the Board of Elders, but no more. Do not get showy. And most certainly do not be late." And Arya picked up her sword and left. Had she looked back, she would have seen the excited smile on LIllea's face.

She swings again at the training post, hacking and spinning, shredding the worn leather to pieces with her sword. It has been four months since she was revealed to elves in the city, and still she has not set out on the journey to the dragon camp. Her mother yet again could not make practice, and so Lillea practices with herself, the exercises seeming so tedious and fruitless. Scowling, she gives a mighty swing, and the old post snaps under the pressure of the superior blade, splintering and bending over to touch the ground.

Deciding to see this as a sign that her sword training has been sufficient for the day, she sets off to see Volund and alleviate her cloudy mood, heading toward the bleeding sky that is made as the horizon meets the setting sun.

_'I will be of no help, hatchling,' _he murmurs as soon as he sees her intentions. _'For I agree with you, and see no reason why I sit here day after day, like a show-beast rather than training under the very best like the rest of my brethren.' _Hearing his speech, Lillea realizes that he, too, has been brooding on this far longer than he has let on. She reaches the place where he rests, still in the forest, for he declined any sort of home in the city.

He lets out a great lungful of breath, dispelled in a heavy sigh. _'Care to go for a fly?' _Lillea grimaces at the memory of her scraped thighs. Anytime they try to fly, it does not turn out well for her.

_'I cannot, you know this, not until mother gives me a dragon saddle. And she insists yet that we are not ready.'_

_ 'Much as we are not ready to go to the dragon camp?' _he asks sardonically. Lillea sighs. She has grown up respecting her mother and accepting her decisions as unequivocally wise and correct, yet she could not accept this one.

_'I will speak with her,' _Lillea promises, yet in the same she is frightened to push her mother much further in her current exhausted state.

_'All the more reason to relinquish our training to those specifically designated to structuring it,' _he growls, and I finally find the problem in the currents of thought he is trying to stifle. He thinks that Arya is holding us because she feels he is not ready.

_'Oh, Volund...'_

He gives no response, only a defensive challenge in the way he lays his massive head on the ground and muffles his thoughts. Lillea moves forward to scratch the ridge in his neck he likes so much, and he allows her to.

_'That is not it, Bjartskular. They speak only of your exceptional skills and progress. I would think it to be me, except I have seen them send far less proficient. No, there is something more that we do not know. However, I swear to speak to my mother about it.' _A moments silence reigns, then Lillea lies down on the ground beside him, and stares at the darkening sky, the stars just beginning to stab through the velvet sky.

Working out of his brooding silence, Volund asks quietly, _'What do you think it will be like?' _Lillea smiles to the sky, unable to help herself when she thinks of the famous and glorified Dragon Camp.

_'Worth it. I think it will be worth it.'_


	10. Chapter 10

**(A/N): I don't have much to say this time, only that this should be one of the last fillers, and please enjoy!**

Her heart is light and heavy at the same time as she walks in the dusky twilight to her quarters. Lillea's pace is quick, marked by excitement, the lightness of her heart reflected by her step. The churning of her thoughts is the heavy part. She finally got what she wanted: she would be going to the training camp for dragon riders led by Eragon and Saphira. Just thinking about it makes her heart skip wildly. Yet it had been a bitter argument to get it. And that hurt.

She and her mother hardly ever quarreled. That was not to say that they agreed on everything, but resolution never seemed to be far or furious. This had been easily their worst fight.

_Lillea approached Arya nervously. She knew that she had no real right to push this issue, and at the same time, that she must._

_ "Mother," she began quietly, speaking informally, addressing the queen as her daughter rather than her student._

_ Arya looked up briefly. "Now really is not the greatest time, Lillea. Let us speak later," she requested, eyes tired and distant. Lillea swallowed and persisted. This would not be made easier with time._

_ "I would like to speak now," was all she said, earning a surprised look from her mother for her boldness._

_ But, "Very well," was all Arya said, and she laid aside the documents she had been scanning and looked fully at her daughter._

_ "I feel that it is imperative for the furtherance of our training that Volund and I go to the Dragon Camp to be educated further." Lillea had practiced this approach all afternoon. Arya relaxed._

_ "Of course, and you will."_

_ "Not eventually, Mother. Soon." The issue had been put off with such a response before. So used to seeing steel in her mother's eyes, the weariness there caught her slightly off guard. But she held firm._

_ "Why?"_

_ "Why not?"_

_ Lillea's response seemed to surprise her slightly._

_ "Because you are not ready," Arya finally replied, a response that seemed conditioned by habit._

_ Lillea felt her temper began to rise. "How am I not ready? I have seen you send riders and their dragons a week after the hatching, as soon as a blade could be forged for them. You have sent dragons small enough yet to be carried about, and elves with scarcely enough magic to light a candle. How can you stand before me and tell me I am not ready?" Her voiced had raised to nearly a yell by the end._

_ The fire in Arya rose to match. "You do not know what is best, you are but a child, and Volund even more so. Your training is much better accomplished here-"_

_ "How can you even say that? How can you think you training me properly?" Lillea said, interrupting her mother for one of the first ever occasions. Arya looked as if Lillea had slapped her, and Lillea instantly felt remorse. After a brief pause, she spoke again, gently this time. "Mother, you are running yourself into the ground. You are an excellent trainer, but other duties come first. Eragon and Saphira-"_

_ "Fine," Arya snapped shortly._

_ "Mother-" Lillea tried once more, but the queen of the elves was listening no more._

_ "If you wish to go, you shall go. Go and gather your things, then. You will depart tomorrow." With that, Arya turned and left._

"The memory burns in Lillea, fresh and sharp, bringing waves of guilt and frustration. She know she should not have spoken to her mother like that, should not have allowed her temper to control her harsh words, should not have let a moments passion drive a rift between the two.

_'It had to be done, Lillea,' _Volund says consolingly.

_'I know,' _she says quietly back, _'but not like that.'_ Before he can reply, however, Lillea hears quiet voices coming from the forge, and only one of them is Rhunön. Whispering a spell for silent movement, she creeps forward to eavesdrop. She feels Volund's silent presence in her mind, listening as well. Peeking cautiously in, she sees her mother with Rhunön, sitting two stools and speaking quietly. And her mother is crying.

Lillea's heart quickly rises into her throat and she swallows hard against the answering tears at her mothers suffering. Arya says something to Rhunön through her tears, and Lillea catches Rhunön's response, preceded by a low chuckle. "You know that you do not need to worry, Highness. He will be deliriously happy to see you again, and you know it."

"It will not take him long to figure it out, and when he does, he will be angry. You know he will be," Arya responds quietly.

Rhunön chuckles again. "He will get over it. I do not think it is his temper that you fear, however." Arya looks down, and Lillea thinks she sees reddened cheeks.

_'Of whom do they speak?' _Volund asks her.

_'I have absolutely no idea.' _She returns to listening.

"When are you going to tell her?" Rhunön is asking, and Lillea has a feeling they are referring to herself.

Tears are no longer falling down Arya's face as she stands up. Lillea knows then she needs to go, and quickly, before she is caught in her listening in. Moving swiftly, she sustains the spell for silence until she has crossed the distance to her tree. There she releases the magic and lies on her bed, leveling out her frantic breathing. Her mind latches almost immediately to what she just heard. She believed that the 'she' Rhunön had referred to was herself, but who was the 'he', and why were he and Arya to meet again? Her mind runs through many possibilities, each seemingly more far-fetched than the last. Finally, Volund intercedes in her worrying mind.

_'Let it rest, hatchling,' _he says affectionately. _'When you need to know, Arya will tell you. For now, however, you should gather your things. We began the long trek tomorrow, after all.' _Lillea feels his excitement, even though he says it in a level tone, and it reawakens some of her own. She knows it will be months, though, until they actually arrive at the camp, for the journey across the land and sea is a long and slow one. Tediously, she begins to gather some articles of clothing, most of them riding clothes for the amount of time she know she will be spending on horses in the next few months. Only a few minutes into her packing, there is a knock at her door.

The moon is already out, and so she frowns at the late hour of the visitation. Who would need to see her at this time?

_'Careful,' _Volund growls, still in the forest and fairly unable to help. Hand ready to grasp Stjornu, Lillea pushes open the door, only to find Arya standing there, chin high and any evidence of tears gone.

"Mother," Lillea says in surprise, hand dropping to her side. Arya gentles at the sight of her daughter.

"We will be leaving at first light tomorrow, so try to get to sleep soon," Arya says.

"We?" Lillea asks, confused.

"Yes, we. You, Volund, Firnen, and I will be the only ones making this trek, and we will be flying, so be sure to pack as lightly as possible," she says to Lillea's greatest surprise.

"You think Volund can carry me all the way?" is the only thing she can think of asking.

_'Of course I can,' _he growls quietly.

"Volund will be carrying the packs, mostly, and Firnen will take the both of us. The journey should take just under two weeks, if we manage well."

Lillea can hardly believe it. She will be in the training camp in only two weeks, rather than two months, and she gets to fly there. She feels she should say something confident or elegant, something to mark the maturity she is trying to prove, but all that comes out is, "Thank you, Mother." But Arya smiles, and touches her daughters hair lightly.

"Goodnight, Lillea Dröttningu, and sleep well, my child." Then she turns and disappears into the night, leaving her daughter with a hopeful smile.

**I hate to beg, but if you guys enjoyed, please do leave a review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**(A/N): Thanks for all the follows, alerts, and most of all, reviews! They make my day, and for me personally, there is no better motivation. Thanks!**

The sun is still not visible above the trees, only the streaks of color it creates in the sky, able to be seen as Lillea descends from her tree, hoisting her bag with one hand and stifling a yawn with the other. Volund is settled at the forest's edge, waiting on her and her mother. Blinking her eyes grudgingly against the day, she drags her things over to her dragon and plops down on the ground next to him, leaning her back against his tree trunk of a foreleg.

_'Good morning,' _he chuckles, wide awake in the sparse rays of dawn. Lillea only grumbles, still too tired to put forth the energy required into expelling words. Normally, the excitement would overrun her exhaustion, filling her veins with sparks and lifting the weights from her eyelids, but she knows the flight is to be a long one, and packing took her hours last night. She only hopes she will not fall off of Firnen mid-flight.

Just as she thinks of the beast, Firnen comes flying in, low to the ground, hovering above Arya as she comes walking toward them, something large and leather in her hands. When Arya is close enough to Lillea for her to understand what it is, a thrill of excitement perks Lillea up slightly. A dragon saddle. And since Firnen already has one harnessed onto his back, she can only realize that it is for her and Volund. Placing a hand on warm, mercury scales, Lillea rises to her feet to meet her mother.

Lólindir is there too, walking with her, receiving last minute instructions on running the High House for the unknown length of Arya's absence. Arya appears to give him some final words, for he then nods and bows, turning and leaving, presumably for the group of elves that was waiting to see off their queen and princess.

Arya lays the saddle on the ground in front of them. "I still plan to have you riding Firnen most of the way; however, I think it a good idea to have you ride on Volund at some points too, particularly as we leave," Arya says, by way of greeting. Lillea nods.

"Once I show you and Volund how to put on this saddle, Firnen and I will also briefly guide you on how to ride, as you have not done so before," Arya assumes, and Lillea grins.

"We have, actually, but it's a bit of a pain without the saddle," Lillea says, wincing slightly at the thought of the scars on her thighs.

Arya rolls her eyes, stifling her smile. "Of course you have. Perhaps that is my fault, though. Maybe I should have given you the saddle before. I suppose it does not really matter. Come, I will show you how not to tear your legs open to the muscle."

Once Volunds saddle is on, Lillea helps Arya tie the majority of the packs onto Firnen, then she swings up onto Volund's back, excited to finally be able to fly again. Before they take to the air, the dragons walk over to where the elves are waiting, shaking the earth with the thunder of their weight.

The cluster waits in the cool dawn, quiet from solemnity. Their eyes lift from the climbing sun at the approach of the mounts. The taciturn silence stretches moments more and the groups gaze upon each other. Finally, the crowd, nearly as one, speaks, "Atra esterní ono thelduin," beginning the elven greeting, as well as the farewell.

Arya and Lillea reply verbally, Firnen and Volund mentally, to all there, "Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr."

The gathering answers with the final part, "Un du evarínya ono varda." May good fortune rule over you, peace live in your heart, and the stars watch over you. The tears prick in Lillea's eyes, the thought of all the people and the places she will be missing. She was raised here, afterall, and it is her entire life she will be leaving.

'_You do not leave everything, hatchling,' _Volund murmurs, and Lillea manages a small smile. No, not everything. Her mother and Firnen are coming. And Volund, the new center of her life. Besides, she can always come back. And she will. Yes, she will miss Ellesméra, but this is only the next chapter in her life. And as Firnen and Volund shove off the ground and beat their powerful wings, aiming West, the page is turned.

The travel is both fast and slow at the same time. Lillea spends most of her time cramped behind Arya on Firnen, closing her eyes and watching the world through Volund's eyes. The younger dragon is more playful, swirling and diving occasionally, practicing his maneuvering and reveling in the fresh, free air.

_'You know you do not have to practice so much,' _Lillea tells him, amused. _'Most of the time the dragons coming in are too small to even get off the ground.'_

Volund snorts. _'I was not practicing,' _he tells her, a little defensively, but she can sense his slight embarrassment. Hiding her grin, Lillea easily lets the issue drop, never meaning to injure his pride. After that, however, he does not do quite so many aerial tricks.

Every hour of daylight is spent in flight, so only when the stars come out does Lillea get to stretch, then catch a couple of hours of sleep, before rising with the sun and setting off once more. With the exception of a brief stop midday to eat and relieve themselves, as well as the occasional nighttime training session to keep Lillea's skills honed, there was no varying from the strict flight plan. But it did eat up miles.

Within three days, the group had left Du Weldenvarden, flown over the Spine, and, shortly after, exceeded the boundaries Alagaësia, flying high over the great, blue sea.

The original excitement of seeing new lands vanishes quickly as the days wear on and there is no variance in sight. Flat plains stretch out for hundreds of miles, unbroken until the horizon. Peering off far to the South, Lillea can just make out a jagged spine of mountains, purple from the distance. Their path, however, is on the green flatlands.

At last, however, their final night of travel is upon them, and they cease their flying early, following the sun down to the earth. And Arya is as tense as Lillea has ever seen her. Her movements are stiff and precise, mechanical and without thought. For it is quite clear her mind is elsewhere. Her mouth is pressed it a tight line, and her face looks as if it could be made of stone for how moldable it looks. Even her posture seems stern and closed.

_'What wears on your mother?' _Volund asks, noticing Arya's distress through his own complicated relationship with her. Dragons do not form attachments to their mothers, but he understood that elves do. Or nearly every creature on two legs does, for that matter.

Lillea only frowns in response to his question, however, not knowing how to answer. She has never seen her mother this worked up. She has seen her angry, of course, but this anxiety that looks as if it is eating away at her is much worse. All the same, she does not believe Arya will tell her is she asks. But she supposes she should try.

Arya does not even look up as her daughter approaches where she sits on a lone rock. "Mother?"

At this she does look up, but the look in her eyes is very distant. It takes her a moment to focus on the girl standing in front of her, but the frown does not alleviate when she does. Deciding the eye contact is invitation enough for her to speak, she pushes through the cold set of her mother's face.

"Are you-okay?" It feels strange to be asking her mother that. But perhaps Arya cannot always be the strong one. Lillea was beginning to realize that, lately.

One look at Arya's face brings up the possibility that her mother does not realize the same thing. "I am fine, Lillea. Is this the only reason you asked for my attention, or do you actually need something? For if it is the former, please stop wasting both of our time." Arya snaps, fully in the present now. Lillea's eyes widen at the harsh speech, and she stumbles a step back. Regret steals instantly into Arya's face.

She stands and closes the distance to her daughter; after a moments hesitation, she pulls her in tight in one fluid, fast movement, hugging her close. After a few moments, she releases her, just as quickly, then gives her a small, close-lipped smile.

"I am sorry, Lillea. It is not you I am angry with. It is my past I quarrel with, but that I must confront alone," Arya murmurs, gently.

And Lillea forgives her, for she has seen the stress and exhaustion laden on her mother, and as much as she can, she understands. "But why now? Why does your past rush at you here, in unfamiliar territory?" That causes Arya to pause, looking for a minute as if she were fighting with something, a secret to tell, or a secret to keep. She must have decided on silence, for her next words disappoint her daughter.

"Perhaps someday, my child. But not tonight. Tonight, I struggle alone," she seems distant again for a few moments, then seems to collect herself, bringing herself back to the present: the plains, the dragons, and her daughter. "Now, we should try to sleep. Tomorrow, we reach the camp."

Obediently, Lillea lays out her bedroll and spreads out on the ground. _'What do you think that was all about?'_ she asks Volund from where he is, a few miles down, hunting the abundant game of the plain with Firnen.

'_I have no idea. And I could get nothing from Firnen, either,' _he grumbles, tearing extra viciously at a bloody deer haunch. Lillea smiles at the thought of her Volund pestering the older dragon.

'_At least he did not get angry with me,' _Volund says, tone slightly peevish. Lillea's smile disappears.

'_That is not fair. You know she did not mean it.'_

_ 'True. Yet she did not amend it with the truth,' _he sighs, and she knows he remains bitter about how much he is treated like a child. Or a hatchling.

_'I know, Volund. But let us think of happier things. Tomorrow, we will be in the dragon camp, training with the finest of us, and meeting Eragon and Saphira. Face to face!' _And the resentment is forgotten about, chased away with the far more exciting thoughts of meeting the two heroes, and the surreal feeling of finally making it to the dragon camp, the place they have only dreamed of for months.

Only hours later does the pair finally drifted off.


	12. Chapter 12

**(A/N): You guys are in luck! I am finally out of fillers! ;) Enjoy!**

Eragon settles a hand on the thick rope to steady himself as the rough bridge spanning the gap between the airborne isles sways beneath him. If he looks down between the wooden slats of the bridge he balances on, he can just make out the plains below, tilled with the darker rectangles of crops, and dotted with the tents that serve as houses for their farmers.

Finishing the crossing, Eragon stands on the large chunk of floating rock and surveys the area around him, hands on his hips, eyes squinted against the bright sunshine. He is in the area where the first levels train, and all around him are young trainees running a course of obstacles, and the rhythmic thuds of light, wooden swords thwacking into leather padded poles. Fifth level students prowl through the ranks, every now and again offering encouragement, or correcting mistakes. Satisfied, Eragon begins walking around the edge of the landmass to the next bridge, wishing next to check up on the school rooms, particularly those of the middle levels, which were currently in session.

However, halfway across the bridge that would take him there, a massive roar echoes through the camp, vibrating the earth, and wildly shaking the bridge he is on. Stumbling slightly before regaining his balance, Eragon quickly darts across the remainder of the distance to the next island.

Few dragons, for it was undoubtedly the roar of one, were large enough to make such a noise. At this time period, only Saphira, Thorn, and Firnen would be capable of the feat. And he knows it was not his own dragon. Then an answering roar sounds, from inside the camp. This one he recognizes: Saphira.

'_Firnen!' _she informs him, excited as a puppy. Or perhaps that is his excitement, rebounding across their link. And he cannot help but ask:

'_Is-is Arya with him?' _

With a patient chuckle, he realizes she does not know, but they both definitely plan to find out. He is suddenly cast in shadow, and he looks up to see his massive dragon blotting out the sun, and adding a new radiance to the sky. She swoops gracefully down to him, and he moves to the edge where she waits, grabbing tightly to the ivory spine on her neck, and swinging himself into the saddle she already wears.

And they are off, ceasing to be two, separate entities any longer. Ripping out another jubilant roar, they gain altitude with each massive sweep of their pale, vein-spidered wings, and take in the world beneath them with quick, blue-tinted clarity. High above their floating camp now, they speed above the awed eyes of the dragon-riders-in-training, and at the sound of the newest bellow from Firnen, much closer this time.

Pressing himself tight to her back to reduce wind exposure, the two fly ever faster, a streamlined machine, built for the air. After scarcely a minute, a green, glittering mass appears through the fog that perpetually blankets the camp. And so blinded is he by the lean figure sitting astride Firnen, raven hair streaming fearsomely behind her, that he does not at first notice the other dragon/rider pair with them.

Unable to be any closer to her airborne as they are, he rushes out instead with his mind, enveloping hers after only a moment's hesitation on her part, and for a short while, enters into as deep a union as he always shares with Saphira. Ironically, it is through this very intimacy that he can sense that she is hiding something from him. And yet, when she smiles at him, he cannot help but grin back. A quiet yelp breaks the moment, and Eragon's head snaps toward the sound in perfect surprise. A young, silver dragon fades into the gray fog, and on his back a blonde, elf child sits. Her cheeks flame as she regains her balance, embarrassed at the attention her moment of clumsiness brought her. Eragon is puzzled, but not unpleasantly so.

"You do not usually afford the honor of your escort to the new trainees," he says, speaking aloud for the benefit of the young pair. And just like that, Arya is the Queen of Ellesméra again, all formality and etiquette. But the simple action of wiping her palms on her trousers tells him that she is trying to hide her nervousness.

"Eragon Kingkiller, this is my daughter and heir to the elven throne, Lillea Dröttningu."

Eragon freezes. The only thing that keeps him from falling off Saphira is his hand clenched around her neck spike in a grip so tight his knuckles turn white. He considers for a moment that she might be lying, but they are conversing in the ancient language, so he knows this is not possible. He stares at Arya for a few moments in disbelief, but the look on her face tells him that he is not wrong. He turns to look back at the girl Arya called Lillea, staring hungrily at her, drinking in the details of her face as a man dying of thirst would drink water.

She does not look exactly like either him or Arya, but upon looking more clearly, he can see that she is his. Her hair is a pale blonde, not like his or Arya's, exactly, but definitely taking more color from his own dirty blonde color. Her eyes, though, reflect a bit more of Arya's pigmentation, being a clear blue, visible even from where he sits. The shape of them, however, is more his, rounded and humanoid, as opposed to her mother's almond shaped ones. They were especially round now, widened in surprise, and possibly a little fear.

'_Eragon, please…' _Arya says quietly, but he is not listening.

"How old is she?" he asks, voice gruff. He continues to look at his daughter. Her cheekbones are Arya's, he sees, high and elegant, as is the small, swooping nose on her face. But he can see his own jawline, though it is smaller in her female face. He wonders what she has retained from the bit of human blood he gave her.

'_Eragon, you are frightening her. She does not know,' _Arya says, this time more urgently. He ignores her, focusing on this newfound discovery.

'_Eragon, enough,' _Saphira commands this time, the only one deep enough in his life to be capable of reaching him now. Reluctantly, he tears his eyes away from the wide-eyed girl and looks back at Arya.

'_How old is she?' _he demands of her again.

Arya sighs. _'She is 16. You are not wrong. She can only be yours.'_

Eragon expects perhaps to feel happiness, that he has a child, perhaps shock from the suddenness, but he only feels an overwhelming wave of anger. _'And she does not know,' _he snarls, scarcely managing to keep from verbal communication.

Arya presses her lips together, and he can see that she, too, is rising to anger. But he cannot calm down. _'No, Eragon, she does not. It was for her own good-'_

"No!" he yells aloud, forgetting himself for a moment. Lillea flinches, and Eragon resumes mental speaking. _'You do not get to tell me that keeping me from her was for her own good. You cannot tell me that.'_

_ 'Yes, actually, I do. This was my decision, and it did not need to be harder than it was,' _Arya snaps.

_'You think this is easy, then?' _he hisses in disbelief. _'No, Arya Dragonkiller, this was not your decision. You made it so, but it was never yours to make.' _Before she could respond again, he addressed the elven princess.

"You wish to train at the dragon camp under Saphira and I, then?" he asks her, manner cold.

She has to swallow before words will come out, but when she does speak, her voice hardly trembles. "Yes, I do." When Eragon only raises an eyebrow, she hastily adds, "Master." He gives her a small nod.

_'And what are you called, Bjartskular?' _Saphira asks, projecting her thoughts to the entire group of six, but speaking only to the silver dragon.

_'I am Volund,' _he says, speaking for the first time in this gathering, voice deep and strong.

_'And do you wish to train here, with Eragon and I?' _she asks him, more gently than her rider had.

_'Yes, Master,' _he says immediately, having apparently no problem with pride.

"You will be assessed, then placed in the proper level based on your skill in weapons, magic, riding, and knowledge. There are seven levels total," Eragon explains, then turns to Arya. "There is no reason for you to be here any longer. You may leave." Arya's eyes flash as the rude dismissal.

"I would like to assess how my subjects are being trained, actually. It is well past time I check how things are being run here," Arya says royally, chin raised.

Eragon's lips pull up in a cruel, humorless smile. "Very well, then. Follow," and Saphira beats her wings powerfully, rising up, then turns to fly to the Isle of Assessment.

Once his back is to the women, Eragon drops his forehead onto Saphira's scaly neck, and he tries to breath deeply, fighting exhaustion, and murmuring expletives under his breath. He feels only a great sadness from his mount, terrible in contrast to the excitement that had been in their hearts less than an hour before.

'_Was I so terribly out of line in how I reacted?' _he asks her, scared to hear her disappointment.

'_Little one, there was no right way to react to that. You did what any man might. I find no fault in you,' _she murmurs comfortingly, and Eragon blinks hard to clear the tears that replace the anger.

'_Come on, let us remind her why there are ballads written about us,' _she teases, and Eragon smiles slightly and straightens his shoulders, ready to forge forward, Saphira at his side.


	13. Chapter 13

**(A/N): Let the Sorting Ceremony begin! Wait. Whoops, wrong books! Oh well! Enjoy anyway!**

When she sees the dragon camp, the puzzling encounter of the past hour is driven almost entirely from Lillea's mind. The camp, being so recent and so far away, was neither well known, nor well documented. It was known only that Eragon and Saphira had left the country to establish it, as well as the general location of it to direct new riders and their parties to. And for as many times as she had imagined it, never had she envisioned this.

Massive chunks of rock hang before the group, grass covered islands suspended in the air and draped in mist. Lillea looks for anything possibly holding them up, some supports, perhaps, hidden in the fog. But there is nothing. Simply these phenomena, hanging mysteriously in the balance between earth and sky.

Climbing even higher, Eragon leads them to a smaller island, void of almost any vegetation and set off from the others. Volund and Firnen join Saphira on the platform, landing with their riders, talons screeching against the uneven rock. Volund jars Lillea slightly with his landing, both nervous and exhausted. He recovers his balance quickly, however, crouching for his rider to dismount.

'_Are you alright?' _she asks him, steadying herself with a hand on his neck while she stretches stiff legs.

He hesitates for a moment. _'I will be a lot better once I get these packs off,' _he admits, straightening, and folding his wings elegantly.

'_Come forward,' _Eragon and Saphira say at the same time, and butterflies erupt in her stomach. She can feel her dragon's anxiety as well.

"May I?" Lillea asks instead, indicating the straps crisscrossing her beast by placing a hand on them. Eragon raises an eyebrow, but nods at her to continue.

Taking slightly longer than usual because of her trembling fingers, Lillea finally slides the last strap free and the packs fall to the ground.

'_You should not have delayed,' _Volund tells her, a little nervous.

'_I know. But you are going to have to fly, and I want you to show them how awesome you are,' _Lillea says to him, placing a quick hand on his neck and giving him a little smile, before turning and moving to stand before the esteemed dragon/rider combination. Volund follows behind her, looming and proud.

'_Are you ready?' _they both ask at one. Her and Volund both answer affirmatively, and so Saphira next speaks.

'_Come with me then, hatchling,' _Saphira says, directed at the silver dragon, and the two take off, diving powerfully over the edge and appearing seconds later, gliding toward the clouds. Moments later, Firnen follows, speeding to catch up. Lillea is left facing Eragon alone, her stony-faced mother standing lengths away, arms crossed. She misses the presence of Volund immediately.

"We will test your skill with a weapon first. You fight with a blade, I presume?" Eragon asks, his speech clipped and eyes cold. In response, Lillea only pulls out Stjornu and guards it. Fixing him with a look just as hard as his own, she faces off in fighting stance.

Narrowing his gaze slightly, Eragon crouches as well, drawing and guarding his blue blade, Brisingr. And Lillea is launched into the fiercest swordfighting battle of her life.

It does not take long for it to be over, and Lillea is looking down the length of Brisingr, poised at her throat. In her peripheral, she can see her own silver blade, lying discarded and cold on the ground. The man across from her lowers his blade slowly, and Lillea stoops to pick up her sword, but not before noticing the sweat at his temples, and his heaving chest as he struggles to control his breathing. When she meets his eyes again, some of the coldness in them has melted, and she swears she sees some admiration in them, if only briefly.

'_That's my girl,' _she hears her mom whisper quietly, in her mind, and she cannot help the smile that rises within her.

"Let's try again, but more slowly this time. I want to see what you know." They face off again, but work move by move this time, gaining speed as they go on, but never reaching the pace of an all out battle. Finally, when sweat pours down Lillea's brow and she labors to breath, Eragon calls a cease.

"Take a five minute rest," he says between gasps of breath, "then we shall resume." His tone is definitely softer this time, and Lillea wonders at the change, but does not dwell on it. For just then, Volund comes diving out of the sky, and lands beautifully beside her on the sparse island, the other two dragons following close behind. They are given no time to compare, however, for just then, Lillea feels Saphira's presence in her mind.

'_What was Volund just tested on, Lillea?' _she asks her, and Lillea is at a loss. Saphira and Eragon can both tell, and Eragon fires at Volund:

'_And what skill did Lillea just show?'_ He, too, was unable to answer any more than that it was some physical activity, noting the perspiration that soaked them both. Lillea looked down in shame.

'_You must always stay connected with each other. It is very important, no matter how preoccupied. It can easily be the difference between life and death,' _Saphira admonishes them. They seek to remedy the problem immediately, quickly comparing details of what had just transpired. Apparently, Volund just did the aerial maneuvering part of his test, and that is was easy, but that it was supposed to be the easiest portion. He also comments on the behavior between the two other dragons, stating facts that cause his rider to jump to some conclusions that help to clear some of the haze away from the interaction she had previously witnessed between the riders of the two said dragons. She shares her experience with the sword fighting. And then Eragon stands, and it is time to be off again.

The dragons take off once more, and Lillea stands up, awaiting further instructions from him. Arya still stands silent, stance closed and watching.

"Magic is next. You are allowed to share whatever energy with your dragon that you wish, keeping in mind that he is in the middle of his own trial. Any other source of energy is forbidden. Now, let us begin," Eragon instructs, and then he enters her mind, entirely without warning. Lillea gasps and throws up a quick wall, effectively shutting him out. He makes several other attempts, sliding and looking for armor chinks. And then Saphira joins him, and Lillea is hit by a battering ram. There is no block effective enough to use, and so she calls on her own dragon to join her, needing his help to throw them out, loathe as she is to distract him right now.

He comes immediately to her aid, struggling for a moment to balance his focus between her and the rock he is supposed to be melting. He manages it, though, wrapping her mind in the iron wall of his conscience, and still maintaining the torrent of flames streaming from his maw. Finally, Saphira withdraws completely, and Eragon lingers only on the outer edge of her conscience. Wary still of an impending attack, Volund stays close, though he allows the balance of his attention to weigh more in favor of his physical task at hand.

'_Good,' _Eragon says from the perimeter of her conscience. _'Now, I will remain here for the remainder of the magic portion, just to be sure that you are not pulling energy from any sources but Volund.' _Though uncomfortable with the idea, she pretends not to be, and tries to relax and focus only on her magic.

'_Alright, let us start with the elements. Summon a tongue of fire.' _So it began, Eragon running her patiently through types of magic as diverse as language itself, some subtle and some for show, even devoting a section to blessings and their effects. From magic, Eragon removes himself from her mind, and they move straight into the Rimgar, with him quizzing her periodically on what it is that Volund is working on. After the Dance of Snake and Crane, Eragon asks her briefly about her meditations, and then gestures for her to sit.

"The last part of your assessment is going to be your knowledge. Let us start with languages. I want you to tell me the story of Linnëa and the Menoa Tree," Eragon requests.

Lillea is confused with the simplicity of this task. Any and each elf knows this story by heart, especially one that grew up in Ellesméra. And so, taking a deep breath, she launches into the story of the elven woman who, heartbroken at the treachery of her lover, killed him and his mistress, then sang herself into an ancient tree, adding as many details as she can remember, wondering if storytelling is perhaps considered an asset. Once she is finished, Eragon nods calmly, then smiles wolfishly.

"Now, tell it in the rest of the languages."

Half an hour later, Lillea has managed to choke through a creative version of the tale in the language of the humans, gets the words 'tree' and 'girl' in dwarvish with the help of Volund, and says only 'hello' in the Urgal tongue. The small smirk has not left Eragon's face, and Lillea wants to smack it off. Off course, she would not dare, not in a million years.

They go through a few more questions: geography, bestiary, cultures. Though she does not do terribly, there are a lot that she was unable to answer. By the time Volund gets back, she is feeling terribly disheartened. She should definitely have better studied what Arya told her to, and is thoroughly regretting the lazy skimming that she knows she did. Eragon stands from his crosslegged position on a boulder and brushes off his leggings. Looking up and shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun with a hand, he apparently find what he is looking for in the form of a black dragon circling overhead. Called down by Eragon, it starts to descend.

A very large dragon the color of oil lands on the now cramped island, bearing a rider that had not been visible from the sky. This dragon is mesmerizing to look at, a black so deep that it reflects all of the colors of the spectrum, flashing a slick rainbow in the glare of the setting sun; the light plays gorgeously on its scales as it moves.

"Daemon (DAY-men)," Eragon calls to the human rider as he dismounts. The man is very tall, Lillea notices, and thick as well, broad shoulders set with muscle. He inclines his head slightly to Eragon in acknowledgement.

"This is Lillea. She will be entering in at level four. I would ask that you show her to her housing, and give her a basic rundown of the camp as well," Eragon asks of him. Daemon nods, then turns to fix his gaze on Lillea. She looks back, beginning her study of names and faces straight away. Everything about him seems dark: his short, black hair, tanned skin, and smooth, charcoal eyes. Even his clothing and dragon match the shadowy theme. And yet, she cannot help but notice that it is not the flat darkness of a shadow. This kind of hue teems with brightness and life, dark eyes studying her with intelligence and a calm curiosity. He steps forward and extends a hand to her, and she shakes it, losing her hand in his broad calluses. Releasing her both from his hand and gaze, he turns slightly and gestures to his beautiful, black beast.

"This is Monolith," he says, speaking for the first time since he's arrived, his voice a very low tone.

"Well met, Bjartskular," she tells Monolith, and he ducks his head slightly in response. After a moment of pause, Lillea looks at her dragon, belatedly realizing she should introduce him as well, as it is rude to speak to a stranger mentally without permission.

"Volund," she introduces, with a quick gesture at the silver beast, and Daemon and he nod at each other. Daemon speaks next.

"Are you ready?" he asks, and Lillea is getting sick of this question. Still, she says nothing about it.

"Erm...almost," she says instead, turning around to her bags that had been dropped to the ground, and moving to strap them back onto Volund's back. Daemon steps back and mounts his own dragon, then sits and waits silently. In a few minutes, they are secure again.

"Care to follow?" Daemon asks her, and she sighs.

"You have no idea how many times I have heard that word today," she says, climbing onto Volund's back. Daemon shoots her a small smirk over his shoulder, then he and Monolith take off. Just before she follows, she sees Eragon look at her mother. The twisted smile is back on his face.

"I guess it is my honor, then, to escort you to the elven embassy, Highness," Eragon says, sarcasm dripping from his words.

"Then why are you still talking? Ride," Arya smiles humorlessly back, and Eragon's face goes slack with surprise, before he snaps his mouth shut and climbs onto Saphira stiffly. Lillea ducks her head so that her new instructor cannot see the wicked grin on her face. But as they take off, a snort of laughter escapes Volund in the form of a puff of smoke coming from his nostrils, and she collapses into giggles against his neck, shaking with him in laughter, all the while following Daemon and Monolith to her new home.


	14. Chapter 14

**(A/N): Hey everyone! Or, at least everyone who has stuck with me. I know it's been a long time, and I'm truly sorry, I am. Unfortunately, I do not see my schedule getting much better. :( Life is pretty busy right now, not going to lie, and I'm not sure when updates are going to be coming. I can promise you this though: I have not given up on this story. I am still continuing it, albeit slowly, and really appreciate those of you who have stuck with me through this. I'm still reading reviews and love the constructive criticism and compliments alike. Again, you will have read a little bit of this chapter, but most of it is new. Thanks for all of your patience and support!**

Daemon leads her across the camp, soaring among rainbow of other dragons, and steering to an island with a large, blockish, wooden building.

Volund drops gratefully onto the flat, grassy expanse that runs around the building, following Monolith to the ground. Lillea dismounts and immediately attacks the straps on Volund.

"There are caves below, in the rock of the underside of this island for you to sleep, Volund," Daemon tells him, and Lillea finally frees him from his bags again. She leaves the saddle on him, however, at his insistence that it does not bother him.

Taking off, Monolith presumably leaves to show Volund his new dwelling, for he hovers just over the edge and around the side, with Volund following, then disappearing. His mind shares with her an image of a large, rough hewn cave, dark and dry. Volund slinks to the back, then settles down heavily, blinking sleepily.

'_How are you doing?' _she asks him, worried about his sleeping arrangement. But he sends her a lazy contentment, and Lillea smiles as she realizes that he _likes _the cave, and that she still has much to learn about Volund and his kind. Loading most of her bags onto her own back, Lillea steps boldly forward to the building and pushes on the nearest door. She nearly drops her packs when an electric pulse runs through her fingertips and the door does not budge.

Daemon scoops the few bags that she missed onto his own broad shoulders, then moves a few entrances down, and props the door open with a smirk.

"These will be your quarters while you occupy the fourth level," he tells her in his deep voice when she gets closer. She steps inside, and he follows after her, dropping both the door and her bags.

It is small inside, but not cramped, with some basic furnishings. A wash basin stands in one corner, along with a small nightstand and single-sized, pelt-draped bed in another corner. A fireplace with a pot hanging over it is set into a side wall.

"Take a few minutes to recover from your travels, then come outside and I will better acclimate you with the camp," Daemon says, and then is gone, only the breath of air blown in through the door announcing his departure.

Turning back toward the room, Lillea shrugs back her shoulders, dropping the bags and freeing her from the weight. As she looks around the room once more, some strange sense of homecoming washes through her, peaceful and sweet. Then she remembers that she is supposed to be meeting Daemon outside, and she jolts into action.

First nudging her bags into a more organized pile by her bed, the young dragon rider then moves to the washstand, rubbing water quickly over her face and through her hair, before re-braiding the pale locks. She then goes back to her bags and shucks off her worn, travel clothes, glad to finally be rid of them.

Lillea quickly dons a new tunic and leggings, these much cleaner, then darts to check her reflection in the draining water of the basin, catching a glimpse of wide, blue eyes, bright with excitement before, satisfied, she heads out the door and into the mist-dimmed sunlight. Daemon stands outside, calm and confident, in the middle of the grass. When he sees her, he raises his head slightly in greeting, then begins walking toward a shaky-looking bridge, waving a hand for her to follow. Checking once more to be sure that her dragon is contented, Lillea sets off after the older dragon rider. When she gets closer to him and starts to cross the rocking bridge, Daemon begins to speak.

"This camp has seven total levels. You are, of course, in the fourth one." Lillea waits for him to continue, and when he doesn't, she battles briefly with herself deciding whether she should ask or not. Curiosity ruling out, she scrambles onto the bridge after him, mouth open to ask her question. A yelp comes out instead. As soon as she sets foot on the bridge, it pitches wildly underneath her, ropes swinging in the still air.

Daemon looks over his shoulder, eyes still, mouth corners quirked up. "Easy does it. Evenly distribute your weight, and try to walk against the swing of the bridge. You will grow accustomed," he instructs, before turning back and continuing to the next isle, leaving her to watch and try to copy the way he navigated. Once they again reach solid ground, she swallows hard and looks up at him.

"May I at least as _why _such suicidal bridges were built?" Lillea asks, trying not to glare.

"How could a dragon rider be afraid of heights?" he asks, by way of answering.

"Being afraid of heights and having a death wish are a bit different," she snaps back, to which he responds with only a calm stare. Unable to meet his eyes for long, she looks down, cheeks flushed with embarrassment at her outburst.

"Do not forget your rank here," he says quietly. Then, to her intense relief, he continues talking as if it had never happened. "Ranks here are based on a few things: weaponry, magic, and flying skills, then knowledge, which itself encompasses a vast variety of things."

"And what is all expected of me then as a level four?" she asks, hurrying to keep pace with his taller form.

"There is a book that you will receive your first day of lessons that goes over each of the ranks, and what is required to proceed to the next one," he answers, and then they arrive at a large building before she can reply. A double set of carved, wooden doors mark the entrance. Remembering the shock she received at the last door she tried to open, Lillea turns to Daemon, who shoves the door on the right open with his shoulder, and props it open.

"Is there a trick to opening doors around here?" she asks, not entering the building. Daemon looks momentarily confused, then his lip twitches when he understands.

"Only the locked ones. And the trick is simple: don't."

"Why was that door locked then?" Lillea challenges, and he raises an eyebrow.

"I imagine because the owner of the room wanted it that way," Daemon answers, then giving up on holding the door for her, he turns and walks into the hall, leaving her to catch the heavy, swinging door and follow him into the cool hall.

For that is what the building is. The first thing that draws the attention are arches, massive spiraling ones sung of living plants and scattered with flowers, reminding Lillea of Ellesméra's main hall. Great glass windows on every surface but the floor let in torrents of sunlight, slanting in and bleaching the clean carved wood of the tables, and sparking off of precious gems inlaid into twisting stone, which tangles and dances with the living wooden arches.

Twin staircases curve near the side walls up to a second floor, half as large as the first one, on which Lillea can just make out more tables and sunlight, and bookshelf-lined walls.

"Welcome to 'Miotôo Ökkar' or, 'Our Center,' Daemon instructs, and Lillea jumps slightly, having almost entirely forgotten about the presence of her guide in his silence. He continues, "This main floor is not used for much for the day to day, mostly special occasions and meetings." He then gestures to the half floor that she noticed, "That large balcony up there is where most of our manuscripts and writings are kept, for borrow and study; it is akin to what us humans call a 'library.'"

Pointing briefly at a down-leading staircase off to the far right, "That leads down to the egg vault, which you do not get to visit yet," Daemon explains, saying the last part with emphasis when he sees her mouth open to ask the obvious question. She swallows down the petulant 'why not?' that rises in her throat, and follows him silently out of the building instead, casting one last glance at the mysterious stairwell before stepping out into the sunshine.

The next building Daemon directs her to is a square, wooden building, much like all the others on the island. Stepping inside reveals the small, plain interior. Though much less grand than the main hall, the building seems to be just as functionally efficient. Long and low, the room is brightly lit by globes of light suspended at the ceiling. Four massive tables that look to be made of oak stretch the length of the room, with matching wooden benches running the length of each side. "You may, of course, choose to cook for yourself. However, meals will be served here three times a day, should you choose to partake," Lillea's guide mentioned, gesturing at the room with a swift movement of the head. She nodded vaguely, still gazing about while following Daemon out the door.

Two more buildings decorate the isle. One, a short, squat square, is revealed to be the medical center. Daemon points out with some amusement its proximity to the isle which houses the first and second level housing. The last building was a small meeting house, into which Lillea only stuck her head in. The single room inside was quite plain, comprised only of a large table encircled by chairs, which appeared to have been sung straight from the floor. A clear head of the table was designated by an almost throne-like seat.

Hopping once again onto the hated bridges, Lillea follows her guide to a new island, this one much smaller than the central land mass, yet still incredibly large. The isle is attached directly to the one that contains her housing facility, and is set apart the main island via two sets of bridges, the isle for fourth level housing in the middle serving as both an emotional and structural reprieve. "This plot of land is reserved solely for physical training," Daemon tells her once her feet are once again on solid ground. "Though many of your lessons and grounds will be level designated, this particular arena is used by levels two through seven."

The arena he spoke of is not like any she was used to seeing. This is massive, and...varied. Activity buzzes everywhere on the island. In one area, all sizes of partners face off with all sizes of colorful swords. Others that appear to be instructors stand by and monitor in some cases. In other cases, the sparring mates appear to be free lance. Another area has padded posts that students are hacking at, matching the moves and strokes being called out to them by a teacher. In yet section of the arena there appears to be a course of obstacles being navigated by trains of hurried pupils. After a few minutes of her wide-eyed curiosity, Daemon interrupts, saying, "This is where you will have your swordsmanship lessons. You may also come to practice in your free time, if you so desire" He then turns to leave, and, after a moment longer of gazing at all the activity, Lillea peels her eyes away and follows. Daemon leads her across the bridge to the island with her room on it, then back to the main landmass. From there, he cuts across the isle diagonally, leading her across a couple transitory islands to one with a hodgepodge of buildings, arranged in a rough circle. Students mill about through the center, lounging and studying, chatting, and heading into the rooms for class. Some made of wood and some stone, the different sized buildings are identified by Daemon to be classrooms for years two through seven. The first level, he explains, get their own classroom block on a nearby island since there are so many of them. A thought occurs to Lillea.

"Who staffs this place then?" she asks, thinking of the kitchens in the mess hall and the instructors she had seen.

"Clarify," he demands, allowing the question.

"The mess hall, for example. Who gets the food and cooks it?"

"Non-riders, those who are fascinated with dragons and wish to be around them, yet never were able to get a dragon egg to hatch for them," Daemon explains.

"That does not seem fair. What do they get in return?" Lillea asks, starting to warm with the idea of injustice. Daemon gives her a cool look for a moment. Then:

"It is their choice." Lillea opens her mouth to reply, but is cut off by his stony look. She feels the points of her ears redden in anger, but dares not speak. Looking away, Daemon makes it clear the discussion is dropped.

Pointing, Daemon directs her attention to a small island attached by a bridge even more precarious looking than usual because of its steep upward slant. "That is the island on which magic is practiced. Mostly in use by the younger years, the isle is the only man made one in the complex. It is made of stone and set so far apart to prevent accidents. Or, at least, minimize the casualties," he tells her with his usual flat tone. Lillea fights the look of surprise on her face as she tries to tell whether or not he is joking. Refusing to give him a reaction, she crosses her arms and fixes him with a glare.

Daemon glances back to her, still pointing. Seeing the look she is giving him, he lowers her arm and wipes his face of expression. "Maybe this is not the case back home, but here, I outrank you. You do not have to like me. You do not even have to pretend to like me. But you will respect me. Do you understand me?" he asks, eyes holding hers sternly the entire time. Scared but stubborn, Lillea refuses to back down, though only glares in her defiance, not trusting her voice not to shake. Daemon takes one step closer. He is at least twice her size, and she has never been more aware of that than now. He speaks in a very low tone, yet Lillea has no trouble hearing him. "Do you understand me?"

Lillea looks down, unable to hold his eyes any longer. "Yes," she mumbles, the way she

used to do to her mother as a child.

"Didn't quite catch that, sorry," he says. Though the statement seems mocking, his voice does not reflect it. She looks back up to see him still watching her, expression calm as ever.

"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, I understand." No one had been able to bend her like this beside her mother. Then again, never had she been around anyone beside her mother who outranked her. And just like that, Daemon moves on.

"So it's only the basics of the camp that I have showed you, but you should at least be able to get to all of your classes. You and Volund may choose to explore as much as you choose, if there is any place you should not be, you will be locked out of it. The rest of the day is yours, and there will be a schedule brought to your room for you shortly, if it is not already there. You remember how to get back to your quarters?" he rattles off.

Lillea nods, hoping he realizes she would not have taken his help even had she needed it. He seems to realize no such thing, however, and with a nod, turns and steps off the side of the island. Lillea remains unimpressed. Seconds later, a massive black shadow is swooping skyward, a rider on its back: Monolith and Daemon. Lillea glares at his retreating back for a second longer, then, realizing how totally lost she is, devotes herself entirely to the task of finding her way home before the sun sets.

'_Volund? You awake? I'm lost again…'_


	15. Chapter 15

**(A/N): And a short chapter to make up for my negligence. I am not going to pretend this isn't what you guys are reading my story for. We all know you're here for the Eragon/Arya ;) But I'm nothing if not a tease.**

Retreating within herself, Arya breaths deeply, trying to wrestle down all of her emotions. In her long absence from Eragon, she had forgotten just how good he was at unsettling her. She willed her heartbeat to slow. _'Firnen, have I done the right thing?' _she asks him, questioning her decisions regarding Lillea for the millionth time.

He is silent for a minute, the beat of his wings the only thing steady in her pitching world. _'Dragons do not love the same way as people. It is difficult for me to understand these emotions I feel coursing. However, I am not sure that there was a right thing to be done. I can at least say that you weighed each option logically for the pros and cons. This is what I would have done. So I would like to say that you did,' _Firnen says slowly, calmly swaying in the currents of the air and following his large lover.

_'There is a "but," isn't there?' _Arya sighs. She feels Firnen grin a little.

_'I am not sure that logical solutions apply to matters of the heart,' _he says tactfully, and Arya knows he is right.

_'Please at least do not tell me that I owe Eragon an apology. I am not sure that I could stomach it,' _Arya entreats her beast. He growls low in his throat.

_'If your behavior is cause for apology, then his should have him groveling at your feet,' _Firnen grumbles. Arya smirks slightly, glad at least to have someone always on her side. She is not so sure her daughter will still be once she knows the full truth.

Banking around a massive island in the middle, Eragon and Saphira glide down to a large expanse of grassy land with four, large-sized buildings on it. Firnen and Arya follow, coasting down to settle heavily on the grass. The pair immediately take to gazing about their new and awing surroundings. The building straight ahead looks like a lodge, built of dead tree logs, cut and stacked. The one to its right is merely a large tent, colored a deep red and with black tribal markings on the sides. The next one in line is made of stone, cut immaculately and inlaid with gems. The last one, directly to the left of where they had first landing, is also made of wood, but this wood lived. Sung from seed, the pale brown ash twists into smooth columns to frame the doorway of a building that would not look out of place in Ellesméra. Lodging for humans, urgals, dwarves, and elves, respectively.

"These are the embassies," Eragon begins, and Arya's head snaps to the sound, having nearly forgotten her plight for a moment. It all comes rushing back with the sight of Eragon's subtle discomposure: his uncertain address, clenching and unclenching hands, and avoidance of eye contact. His overall mannerism is no longer one of frost, surprisingly relieving for the Elven Queen to observe, though she notes he still looks angry. Seeing this, Arya allows her own exterior to melt slightly. She gives him a nod to continue.

"Humans, urgals, dwarves, obviously," he continues, gesturing at each of the buildings in turn. "And this is for the Elven Ambassador. Is it to your liking?"

Nodding again, Arya graciously says, "It looks lovely, I sense I will be quite comfortable for the duration of my stay."

Eragon opens his mouth to speak, most likely to ask just how long that duration will be, though apparently thinks better of it and only shakes his head. "There are caves for the dragons underneath the main platform. Firnen may have his pick," he says instead.

_'What if I wish to stay with my Arya?' _Firnen asks of the dragon/rider pair with deliberate phrasing.

_'Then stay,' _Saphira answers, an edge to her tone. She does not appear to be appreciative of Firnen's goading Eragon either.

_'Enough,' _Eragon and Arya both interject at the same time, surprising themselves and each other. They look at each other, yards apart, eyes meeting as if the distance is only inches. And for minutes, neither moves. There is so much to be said, so much to discuss and figure out, that there is nothing. Nothing that can possibly bridge this gap, not now. Shaking his head again, Eragon breaks the moment first, looking at the ground.

"Goodnight, Arya Drotting." _'Goodnight, Firnen Bjartskular.'_

Eragon turns away, back to his lover from times long gone, and mounts Saphira. She watches Saphira's massive legs bunch and launch her and her burden into the air. Just as she turns to go inside, she feels a faint brush on the edge of her conscience, like the stroke of fingertips down her spine, and she gasps. And then he is gone, leaving only an unearthed memory and a touch so swift she isn't sure if it was real or the product of her imagination, longing for things she hadn't known she wanted.


End file.
